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I write for the ones without a voice.

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Light's semi-smile
I have four copies of The Scorpion's Empress that I promised to mail out. Well, I only promised two of them. The other two are more for me than for them. I chose to include a note along with my signature, and a personalized letter. One is finished so far. I'm already emotionally drained from writing it. This one is four pages long. Four is an unlucky number in Japan. It's the equivalent of death in Japanese. Morbid, I know.

With the other three, I plan on including similar sentiments...things that I couldn't admit to them through an actual conversation.

I hadn't opened the package with my books in them. I cried when I finally opened it an hour ago, before I wrote the first letter. That was what I wanted for so long: the feeling of holding my published book in my hands. I don't care about making money off of the book. I don't care if people hate it. I don't care if everyone forgets about the book tomorrow.

All I wanted was that feeling. I worked so hard, writing for over ten years--sacrificing everything, pushing people away, people who loved me, and almost losing my mind--all for this feeling.

It will be worse when Venus and Lysander is finished--and published. I'm much more attached to this manuscript. I actually put effort into the words, the pages. Not so much that it's forced. More like...I stopped shying away from pouring my heart out. It's an emotional effort. Before, writing was a chore. Something I did to escape. Now, it's all I have. More so than before. If I want to spend time with my ideas, I have to write them. Spending time like that staves off my isolation. It scares me how intimate this is. But it works, so I shouldn't complain. 

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